Courteney was directing almost half of the Cougar Towns at that point, so I asked her first. She told me that of course I should direct an episode if the show was picked up for another season. Since we were already shooting, the directors were hired and scheduled for the current season. Plus, as much as I wanted to do it on the principle of the thing, I did just have a baby and there was no way I needed to take on a whole new project, something I’d never done before. Bill Lawrence agreed to ask Disney and they approved it. If the show got picked up, I could direct an episode. I felt triumphant in my quest for equal rights.
As we were gearing up to shoot the last and final season of Cougar Town I sent an email reminding everyone that I would be directing an episode. THEY HAD PROMISED. I was put on the schedule. I called my friend Jason Winer, who had directed the pilot of Modern Family among other things. He gave me some advice, but he basically said I would be fine. I knew what I was doing. I knew where the story was, where the jokes were, how to talk to actors and writers and keep it all together. And he was right. Marc told me I should make a shot list, which I did. The thing is, of course directing is something I’m good at. I love making decisions and my episode was actually really fun to direct. There was a whole caper subplot that I got to shoot like one of the Ocean’s Eleven movies. Our DP Sylvan never made me feel like an idiot for asking what kind of lens we were on and was able to give me exactly what I had asked for. Overall, it was a really fun and exhausting and invigorating week. One of the grips waved me down at the end of the episode. “Hey. Just so you know, we all think you were the best at this, of all the actors. Other than Courteney, of course. No one was sure what to expect this week, but you killed it, girl.”
That’s all I ever want to hear. That I’m the fucking best. I thanked him and drove home, windows open and music blasting. After that, I told my agents that I for sure wanted to be put up for more directing jobs, especially since Cougar Town was ending. I had one meeting with a lower-level executive at Fox who basically told me it would be nearly impossible for me to get hired on any other shows. Cool. Cool. But at least I’d done one.
• • •
As Cougar Town was ending, I had no idea what I was supposed to do next. I could jump on some new network TV comedy pilot, but that didn’t seem quite right. I wasn’t sure what was to come for me, honestly, which can always be a little unsettling.
One day, in SoulCycle, as I was sitting on my bike, my favorite trainer Angela started in about being grateful in the waiting room. “I’m not saying you haven’t been in the waiting room before!” she yelled at us as we peddled away, “I’m not saying that you don’t deserve to skip the waiting room altogether. But here you are! And you need to be GRATEFUL in that WAITING ROOM! BECAUSE THAT DOOR IS ABOUT TO OPEN AND IF YOU ARE NOT SITTING THERE IN GRACE, YOUR NAME WILL NOT BE CALLED! BE GRATEFUL IN THAT WAITING ROOM!!!”
Not long after that, I got a call from my agent about a new show called Vice Principals. Even though I was “offer only” for television at this point, I told them of course I’d audition for those guys. I had no idea what the part was or how big it would be. But I went in, and I thanked them for seeing me and told them how excited I was to be there, how grateful I was for the opportunity.
And then I read the part.
And of course I fucking got it.
SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER
(Sufjan Stevens)
About a month before the 2016 presidential election, we had some friends over for dinner.
“I bet you ten thousand dollars he wins,” said my friend’s husband. “You know why? Because people are fucking idiots, that’s why. He’s going to win, guys. Sorry.”
I shook my head. He didn’t know anything. He just liked to agitate people, that’s all.
“There’s no fucking way, Ben! You don’t know what you’re talking about. You aren’t even from here.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, but I know people, man. And you don’t know how many people hate her. You live in your bubble and think there’s no way, but I bet you more people hate her than him. And also, I think you’re underestimating how many people just hate women in general.” He sat back in his chair with a grim look. “He’s winning. I’m telling you. Watch.”
I shook my head and glanced at Marc as he stood up to clear the plates. No. There was no way. No way. I didn’t live in such a bubble. I’m from Arizona, after all. My sister is married to a Republican. I knew people didn’t like Hillary. I knew what they thought about the dynasty or oligarchy or whatever the fuck word they used when they talked about the Clintons. Plus, a lot of my friends were hard-core Berners. But surely they would turn out for Hillary. If for no other reason than to keep this other man—this horrible, dishonest, unqualified bully—out of the White House. It was insane to even consider the possibility that he might end up winning. After all, the Billy Bush tapes had just been released: moved on her like a bitch; when you’re famous you can do anything; grab ’em by the pussy.
No one in their right mind would vote for someone who bragged about sexually assaulting women . . . right?
Since I had done surrogate work for Hillary, we were invited to the Javits Center for election night. Hillary’s party. I thought we should go. I wanted to be there when that glass ceiling shattered. I wanted to be in the room when history was made.
While writing my stump speech for the campaign, I’d talked to my mom about what it was like for her as a young woman in order to draw a comparison, to get a sense of how far we’ve come.
“Well, honey, let’s see,” she said. “Obviously before Roe v. Wade it was just awful. You young people will never understand what that was like for a woman. Oh, and here’s something! You know I couldn’t open my own credit card account, right? Your dad had to be a cosigner on it. That was for years. Also, after my mom and dad didn’t let me go to New York to act, I thought maybe I wanted to work in advertising. So when I graduated from college, my dad set me up on a job interview with some man he was friends with who ran an agency in Chicago, and I was so excited! I wore my favorite tweed two-piece outfit. Oh, I wish I would’ve kept it; you would’ve loved it. I looked really sharp. Anyway, after I told this man why I wanted to work there and how I thought it would be the right fit for me, he came around the desk and put his hand on my knee and said, ‘A pretty girl like you would be wasted at a desk. Don’t you think you should focus on getting married and starting a family?’ And I was just so . . .”
She paused, her voice cracking,
“. . . HUMILIATED. Mostly that I had even thought it was a real interview.”
“Oh, Jesus, Mom. That’s so awful. I’m sorry.”
“Well, thank you, it was sort of awful, Busy. But that’s what it was like. And you know, then I married your dad and well, I don’t know, life kind of happened. But it all worked out because I had you guys! And now you’re doing this work for Hillary and I am just so proud of you, honey. Of both my girls! I don’t know how I got so lucky.”
“Thanks, Mama,” I said. “I love you.”
• • •
Marc and I flew to New York separately, not because we’re superstitious about flying together without the kids, but because we were using miles to go, since money was getting tight again. We were only going for the night, less than twenty-four hours. We met friends for dinner and then all headed over to the Javits Center together. The Comey letter had been a fucking bummer the week before, but it wasn’t going to change the fact that Hillary Clinton was about to become the first woman president!
The energy (and security) getting into Javits was overwhelming. People were already celebrating. We were escorted up to a room where other celebrity surrogates for Hillary were hanging out. The level of star power in that room was insane, and we immediately felt out of place. I took a seat on one of the couches and started to watch as the results came in. Marc tried to sit next to me but the woman on the end of the sofa put her hand down.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m saving this seat
for Jennifer.”
Marc rolled his eyes at me and took an awkward seat on the floor. A few minutes later, Jennifer Lopez—looking as if she had a permanent Instagram filter attached to her face and body—scooted in and said a soft hi to me before turning her attention to the returns. It wasn’t good. I mean, it wasn’t good for me or anyone sitting in that room. Obviously it was good for others around the country, the ones who had decided that hate speech and misogyny and literal nonsense were better than Hillary Clinton.
When I started to cry, Lady Gaga pointed at me from across the room. “NO! WE NEED POSITIVITY!!!!!! NO TEARS! THIS ISN’T OVER!”
But it was. And we knew it. My friends and Marc and I left, stunned and deflated. For a long time, we wandered around the city, which felt broken somehow. Eventually, we went back to our hotel and fell asleep for a few hours, and when I woke up the next morning, it was official.
I couldn’t stop crying. For my mom, for my daughters, for me. I felt betrayed by my fellow Americans. I felt like I truly didn’t understand anything anymore. It just about wrecked me.
“I know,” Marc said, trying to comfort me. “It’s terrible. But it’ll be fine, Busy. No one’s gonna let him fuck up the world.”
He didn’t understand. How could he?
It was hard to imagine living in a world where women are so truly reviled that a man can brag about abusing them and still get elected president.
But I did live in that world. Clearly.
• • •
A month later, I told Marc I wanted a divorce. I was done. I couldn’t do it anymore.
For a while now, things hadn’t been great between us. In fact, a few years earlier, I had almost asked him not to come to Charleston while I shot Vice Principals. But once he got there, everyone loved him and we ended up having a great summer with the kids.
Lately, though, there was a disconnect again. He didn’t let me talk when we were out with friends. Or worse, when it was just us, he didn’t speak to me at all. I’d started to do a test when we were alone in the car together, where I wouldn’t say anything until he did, just to see how long it would take him to talk to me. Some days we rode the whole way in silence.
All those years of feeling so alone had started to add up. I’d just assumed that was what marriage was: two people being mildly miserable next to one another. When I would ask Marc to work with me on something, he never wanted to, which made me feel like an inconvenience to him, a thing that he put up with. Sometimes he talked to me like I was an idiot. (I’m not an idiot.) (Am I an idiot?)
Disdain. That’s the word.
About nine months earlier, I’d decided I was done for good. I’d been falling all the time and thought maybe there was something wrong with me neurologically. I’d be walking and then would just fall. Hard. I fell holding Cricket. Twice. I split my knee open another time at a concert and had to walk around with blood running down my leg. Actually, I fell twice at that concert. I wasn’t drinking. Not as punk rock as it seems.
“HOLY SHIT!” my friend Rishi said as he helped me up. “Are you okay??”
“Yeah. Yeah. I fall all the time.”
He looked shocked.
As it turned out, there was nothing wrong with me neurologically. I was simply waiting for Marc to notice me. My body was subconsciously propelling me to the ground for attention. But it didn’t work. I was still invisible. I started to have panic attacks again. Bad ones.
Then Trump won. And also. Also. Also. There was a man I was friends with, another dad. We’d been having lunch and stuff. Texting. Talking on the phone a lot. Honestly, I had a crush on him. I liked him. Maybe I even loved him? He clearly liked me too. And I thought, “Well, why is everyone just resigned to being miserable for the rest of their lives? No decision is permanent! The world may end tomorrow from some war with North Korea, so may as well BE HAPPY, right?” Right.
So I told Marc I was leaving him. And I told him why, though I left out the part about the other man. He was shocked. But he didn’t want to get divorced. He wanted a chance to change. He said I owed our family that.
Emily said, “Whatever you want, Pup. I’m there for you.”
Michelle said, “It would be really awful for two years and then you would find a new normal but honestly, if you can keep your family intact, I think you should do it.”
My therapist said, “Listen. Divorce fucks up children. It just does.”
I didn’t want to fuck up my kids. I just didn’t want to be miserable. I know. This is a lot. I’m sorry. But I am. I am a lot. Marc and I started going to therapy again. We had tried it a few times in the past, but it never stuck or made a difference. This time, Marc got his own therapist. And we started to work through it. But I also kept talking to my emotional boyfriend (for lack of a better term). I know. That part is so shitty. I’m sorry. I really am. I really truly am.
It’s not an easy road. Marriage. Kids. Life. Any of it. But weirdly, the more I felt like shit was breaking down in my house, the clearer things became for me work-wise. I guess, if I’m being honest, I wasn’t totally truthful about Instagram either. The reason I started the stories—it was because I was lonely. Marc and I weren’t talking. I needed to talk to someone. It’s who I am. And so I started talking to all of you.
Publicly, people had never been more interested in me and my personal life. Or whatever version of my personal life I was showing. But when they’d comment about how real I was, how relatable, how authentic, I would cringe. I was leaving this whole other side of myself offscreen. Which is okay, of course. Obviously, I know that. Obviously. But still.
Meanwhile, as Donald Trump became president, and my personal life started to fall apart, I did a pilot called The Sackett Sisters. Tina Fey produced it, and I starred in it with Casey Wilson and Bradley Whitford. It was a no-brainer. Of course it was going to get picked up; how could it not? Around the same time, the movie Marc and Abby had written for themselves to direct got financing, and then in a whirlwind, Amy Schumer became attached, and just like that, it was a go for the summer.
We were doing well in therapy together too. In his own sessions, Marc had recently had what I guess is called a breakthrough, and when I finally came clean about the other dude, he was weirdly understanding about it. He really just wanted me to know that he loved me and was sorry I’d felt so alone for so many years and wanted to support me in whatever I needed. He wanted to be a different partner and a different dad, and he was delivering on that. It’s hard to explain it exactly, but he broke open in a way and totally changed the way he related to everyone, not just me. It wasn’t exactly overnight, but it was happening, and I could recognize the change—everyone we knew could see it. For a long time, Birdie had also talked to me like I was an idiot, and I figured that was just what girls did with their moms. It was certainly how I talked to my mom growing up. But once Marc changed, so did she. I sobbed in therapy that I had allowed it for so long: of course my daughter treated me the way her dad treated me. I’d just never made the connection.
We were starting to mend, all of us.
• • •
That spring, my mom and dad were celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Fifty years. As a treat for all of us, they wanted to take me and my sister and our families on a DISNEY CRUISE. Marc and I looked at each other skeptically: “A ‘treat’?”
We were being such jerks about it, so snobby. Like, HOW COULD A DISNEY CRUISE POSSIBLY BE ANY FUN FOR US? Obviously the kids were going to love it, but Marc and I were resigned to being miserable for a week in the Caribbean. Our idea of a vacation wasn’t being stuck on a boat with a bunch of strangers and my family, eating cruise food and trying to avoid norovirus! But a week or so before we were to leave, I had an epiphany. We were so lucky. People would do anything to go on a trip like this with their families. Why couldn’t we just be grateful? Maybe we could go and be open to having a really great time. All of us. I thought of it like a character I was going to play. I went though my closet and buil
t the perfect Disney cruise wardrobe for myself, making sure each of my outfits would work with my Minnie Mouse ears headband, which I would wear the entire cruise. I also decided I would try to deal with my family in a different way so that it wouldn’t be so hard on me. Marc was really supportive in helping me navigate the dynamics, which made a big difference.
And then the craziest thing happened. We had the best time. To our surprise, Marc and I maybe had more fun than anyone else on the ship. We went to all the events and shows and hit the spa every day. Birdie was thrilled at all the freedom she had and made friends with a little girl from Florida, and Cricket had Iliana and her cousin to play with, so she was having the time of her life too. Marc and I made friends with some of the performers on the ship, plus our favorite bartender, who made me about a thousand skinny margaritas. I Instagram-storied the entire thing with the hashtag #ipaidforthis, because I didn’t want people to think I was doing an #AD for @disney. The truth is, they should have fucking paid me. Or at least reimbursed me for my THREE-THOUSAND-DOLLAR INTERNET CHARGE. When I realized how much money I had spent on the high-seas internet, Marc and I dissolved in a fit of giggles. It was so much money! But also, weirdly worth it? And so me to not know I was spending so much money. We reasoned that since the trip was free thanks to my parents, it was okay. Basically, I just spent three grand documenting a super-fun vacation.
While I was on the boat, I found out that The Sackett Sisters probably wasn’t getting picked up. I was devastated. It had felt like a sure thing, so sure I had already lived the next year of my life in my head. What was I supposed to do now? I’d started making money from branded deals on my Instagram, or from doing one-off “press days” for brands, so that wasn’t the issue. It was the fact that I had been doing this job (acting) professionally for twenty years and the rejection has never gotten easier for me. I don’t know why I kept expecting it to, or kept hoping it would. But I did. I kept thinking maybe one day, I would wake up and it wouldn’t break my fucking heart when I wasn’t cast in Bridesmaids. One day, I wouldn’t even flinch when I was asked to lose weight. One day, I wouldn’t cry for a week straight when my pilot didn’t get picked up. One day. One day. One day.
This Will Only Hurt a Little Page 25